Rebellion
by storylover18
Summary: Sherlock wakes John up one night when he has a lot of pain and when John is unable to help his friend, Sherlock concedes to hospital care. No slash, just friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! I have for you another story in which I am cruel and torture poor Sherlock was something that's very painful … but you'll have to wait and see what it is! Enjoy =) **

John was having the loveliest dream. He was walking along a nice, warm beach with a beautiful woman who was kind, sensitive, funny, and …

"John … "

And a really low voice? What? That couldn't be right.

"John …"

The woman was slowly fading from view and in her place was Sherlock. John opened his eyes slowly, the room still dark. He glanced at his clock, the red letters telling him it was only 2:49 A.M.

"John …"

Sherlock's voice, wherever it was coming from, had changed a bit. There was a bit of … hurt or maybe panic? … in the voice and John opened his eyes.

"What?"

"Help me."

Help me? That couldn't be good. John was fully awake now and sat up, turning on the lamp. Sherlock was in the doorway, half-hunched over and holding his side. Needless to say, John got out of bed faster than he ever had before.

"What's wrong?" he asked, leading Sherlock to his bed. His friend, upon closer glance, was pale, shaky, and sweating.

"Sherlock?"

"Pain … agh." Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, curling over himself even further.

"How bad is it?" John asked, not particularly enjoying watching the strongest man he knew double over. Sherlock raised his head long enough to look at John.

"Do you really think I'd be up here if I could handle it?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Right." John said. "Where does it hurt?"

"Abdomen. Back."

"Anywhere specific? Right side?"

"No, not my appendix." Sherlock said.

"What do you want me to do?"

"_Fix it_." Sherlock said. He had a high pain tolerance considering his job but he had never, _ever_ experienced pain this bad before.

"I can take you to hospital."

"No."

"Sherlock, abdominal pain can be very serious and even if I knew what was causing it, I wouldn't be able to help you. You need to go to A&E."

Sherlock had stopped paying attention, closing his eyes. His stomach was churning … oh, please no …

"John, the bin," Sherlock whimpered, holding his stomach tighter. John retrieved the bin and Sherlock vomited – painfully, he might add. He felt like a thousand knives were being pulled across his back. Throwing up did nothing to alleviate the awful feeling. He finished and John took the bin back.

"John, do something …" he moaned, clutching his stomach.

"Can you lie down?" John asked, knowing full well that this examination would get him no where and he'd still end up calling for an ambulance to take them to hospital. Sherlock lay back gingerly – this was not helping much – and tried to relax.

"I'll be right back, alright?" John said and Sherlock, eyes squeezed shut, nodded. John ran – literally ran – downstairs and returned with a damp washcloth and the thermometer. Sherlock opened his eyes as John returned and let John slip the thermometer probe into his mouth and sighed with relief – temporary, mind, but a bit of relief nonetheless – as John blotted sweat off his forehead and neck. The thermometer beeped and John glanced at it – barely a degree above normal. John fixed the compress on Sherlock's forehead before moving a bit so he was leaning over Sherlock's lower abdomen.

"I'm just going to feel around, okay?" John said. "If something hurts more or less than somewhere else, I want you to tell me."

Sherlock nodded and John began doing his exam. A couple of times Sherlock hissed and John saw his leg muscles visible tighten in response to a bit of pressure on a certain spot. Sherlock was right about one thing – his appendix didn't appear to be the problem, which was good. John finished the exam and Sherlock inadvertently curled up into a ball on his side, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

"Have you been eating in the past few days?" John asked. They didn't have a case but that didn't mean Sherlock would necessarily be eating.

"No."

"Are you hungry now?"

"No."

"Have you tried eating anything?"

"Couldn't keep … couldn't keep it down."

This pain was _unbearable_ … couldn't John do _anything _before he resorted to going into hospital?

John sighed.

"Sherlock, I don't know what's causing this. You need to go to hospital."

Sherlock knew that John was right. Something was seriously wrong and it needed to be dealt with … and Sherlock wasn't sure how much more pain he could take.

John didn't wait for Sherlock to respond. He grabbed his mobile and called for an ambulance.

"John …" Sherlock groaned after his friend had hung up the phone.

"It's alright, Sherlock," John said, trying to sound soothing. He picked up the facecloth and blotted Sherlock's forehead again. "Help will be here soon and we'll get you sorted out."

"I want you … to treat me." Sherlock muttered, feeling as though he was going to be sick again.

"What?"

"At the hospital. I want you to be part of medical team looking after me."

"Okay, sure," John said. "But you'll need to tell the doctor when we get there."

Sherlock nodded, knowing it wouldn't be a problem. He had had Mycroft insert a note on his medical file a while back that gave John medical clearance as his acting physician. John heard the siren outside and ran downstairs to let the paramedics in. It was unfortunate that Sherlock was on the third floor but at least he was able to walk down the stairs to the ambulance with John on one side and a strong paramedic on the other. Once inside, the paramedics strapped him in and took his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse, all the while talking to him.

"Why do they keep asking me questions?" a frustrated Sherlock complained to John when there was a brief moment of silence.

"They're just getting information and keeping you awake," John said with a smile.

"How could I possibly fall asleep?" Sherlock muttered under his breath but John heard and tried to keep from laughing.

The ambulance got them to hospital quickly and Sherlock was wheeled into emergency. He didn't like being tied down and was fighting the belts holding him to the gurney but of course, that just made him hurt more and he was moaning.

From his vantage point, he could see only heads as doctors and nurses and paramedics came and went in his little cubicle. Either he was in worse shape than he thought or it was a quiet night in A&E because there seemed to be a lot of people around him awfully quickly.

"John?" Sherlock asked and John stepped into view.

"I'm right here, Sherlock," John said. "They're going to transfer you to a bed in a minute and then the doctor will examine you."

John watched with an air of nostalgia as the medical team counted to three and moved Sherlock – he cried out in the process – and the paramedics left, wheeling their gurney out of the room.

"John?" Sherlock asked again as strange hands began feeling his abdomen.

"I'm still here. Try to relax so the doctor can examine you."

Sherlock didn't relax – he didn't like a stranger touching his stomach. He shifted his head so he could see the doctor.

"Let John help." he muttered. "Dr. Watson."

The doctor glanced down at his patient.

"Yes, I've seen the note and I'll consult with him on my findings and course of treatment but right now, you're my patient and I need you to cooperate with me."

His voice was firm and Sherlock didn't like it … but he also wasn't in much of a position to argue. The pain was growing worse from not being able to move and Sherlock hissed as the doctor touched him again, prompting the doctor to order an intravenous drip with some medication – Sherlock missed the name of it, though. His mind was clouded but he knew it was a pain killer that was not morphine. Apparently Mycroft had been making notes in his medical file, too …

**Any guesses as to what's wrong with poor Sherlock (this time)? I'll give you a hint … in my fifty plus stories, I have done this before … **

**Reviews are always appreciated! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello everyone! HOLY COW. The response I got to this story was **_**phenomenal**_**. Thank you all so much for your support, interest, and encouragement. I cannot tell you what it means to me. You're lucky I needed a way to distract myself from nerves tonight … hence Chapter 2 before the weekend! Enjoy =) **

"Can you make this work any faster?" Sherlock complained, still writhing in pain. He was glancing down with distaste at the IV needle in his arm. He hated anything to do with hospitals and their wonder drugs but at this point, he was in so much pain that he didn't care how he got relief.

No one seemed to be paying him any attention which, as the patient, Sherlock thought was awfully incompetent of the medical staff. Sherlock turned to John, eyes pleading silently.

John looked at the label on the bag and at the IV settings. He adjusted them slightly as they were on the low side.

"Just a few minutes and it'll start to dull down," John said. He turned to a cart and found a blue surgical towel, dampening it in the small sink. He came back to Sherlock and leaned on the rails – some idiotic nurse had snapped them up, effectively making Sherlock feel like he was in a crib – to wipe away the fresh sweat beads.

"What are you doing, Dr. Watson?" the doctor, who's coat read Dr. Coleman, asked.

"Taking care of him." John said simply, quite tempted to add that one of them had to pay attention to the patient. He, too, had noticed how no one answered any of Sherlock's questions.

"If you care to have a discussion with me about Mr. Holmes' treatment, I suggest you join me in the hall."

John got the distinct impression that Dr. Coleman thought a simple gesture like wiping away sweat wasn't worthy of his medical attention.

"Can't you stay in here and discuss?" Sherlock mumbled as John arranged the compress on his forehead. Sherlock swiped it off as soon as John's hand had retracted.

"It's policy," John said, following the doctor to the door. "We'll be right back."

John followed the doctor into the hall and closed the door.

"I have to admit," the doctor said with a bit of hostility in his voice. "That I've never been told to share my patient with another doctor who doesn't work here."

"I fail to see how that affects Sherlock's treatment options," John said.

The doctor glared at John before handing him the medical file. John glanced through it. It didn't list much at the moment, just Sherlock's vitals.

"This tells me nothing." John said, closing the folder. "What tests are you going to run? Urine analysis? Blood samples? X-ray? Ultrasound? CT scan?"

The doctor did not look pleased with John but he didn't care. That was his best friend in there.

"We'll collect a urine sample and some vials of blood to be sent to the lab, as well as do an abdominal x-ray. If it doesn't show anything, we'll run a CT scan. Happy?"

"Yes." John said, handing the medical file back to the doctor. "I'll collect the blood and urine."

John turned to open the door.

"I think I should do it." the doctor stated and John turned around. John knew Sherlock would never, in a million years, let this doctor touch him again. Not after the impromptu physical exam that had clearly made him uncomfortable. But John could sense this doctor would not back down so he opened the door for him.

"Be my guest." he said, following the doctor into the room.

"How are you feeling now, Mr. Holmes?"

The pain had subsided – probably because Sherlock had adjusted the drip rate a bit more – and Sherlock was now squirmy uncomfortably. These beds were impossibly hard and he hated having the side rails up.

"Fine."

Standard answer. John didn't say anything … Dr. Superstar could deal with getting the truth. John stood back with a smug look already painted on his face.

"Glad to hear it," the doctor said distractedly as he arranged vials on the small counter before pulling on gloves and reaching for a needle and elastic band. He came to the side of the bed.

"We're going to draw some blood for tests to get to the bottom of this. If you'll just extend your - "

"No." Sherlock said, cutting him off. Dr. Coleman looked up, surprised.

"I'm sorry?"

"No. I don't want you touching me." Sherlock said. "I want John to do any procedures that involving touching me."

"Mr. Holmes, I assure you that I'm perfectly qualified if that's what you're worried about. I've been doing this for four years now."

"It wasn't." Sherlock said dryly. "I do not give you permission to touch me, doctor, so I suggest you step away from the bed. John?"

John stepped up, pulling gloves from the box on the counter. He took the needle and band from a furious looking Dr. Coleman.

"We need six vials; the labels are on the counter." Dr. Coleman's voice was as cold as ice. "As is the urine bottle. Bring them to the nurses' station when you're through."

With that, he stripped off his gloves and left. The nurses in the room exchanged a look; they had never seen Dr. Coleman so angry.

Sherlock gave John a thin smile as he held up his arm and John tied the band around it, enlarging the veins. Cleaning the area with alcohol, John felt around until he found a good vein and slid the needle in. He started filling vials, glancing at Sherlock when he was on vial three.

"Are you okay?" John asked. Sherlock's face had gone a bit paler.

"Yes." Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes.

"Six vials is a lot of blood. Just take some deep breathes, okay?" John turned to the nurse as he switched out the vials.

"Can you get him some ice?"

The nurse nodded and took some ice packs, putting one on either side of Sherlock's neck before finding a cold cloth for his head.

"Just one more, Sherlock," John said, switching out the last vial. It filled quickly and John, holding gauze over the puncture site, slid the needle out. He kept pressure on it, looking at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, are you with me?"

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Yes."

"Just take a few deep breaths." John repeated. "We'll find you some juice and you'll feel better in a few minutes. It's alright, it's normal to feel dizzy and nauseous when this much blood is taken."

"I'm not normal." Sherlock muttered, trying to will away the urge he had to throw up. That would just be miserable. John checked the puncture site and taped the gauze in place. One of the nurses had gotten a bottle of juice and John cracked it open before sliding his hand under Sherlock's head to help him take a few sips.

"Does that help?" John asked and Sherlock nodded.

"Good. Just take it easy for a few minutes."

For the next five minutes, Sherlock laid there, sipping at the juice, and John labelled the vials, glancing at the checklist of tests the doctor wanted to run. John checked a few more boxes before putting the vials in the blood rack, ready to be taken to the nurses' station. But before he could deliver the samples, he had another one to collect.

"Sherlock?" John asked and Sherlock's eyes sprang open.

"Feel better?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock said and John knew he was back to … well, back to what he had been before the blood being taken.

"We need a urine sample." John said, holding out the large urine container for Sherlock to use. Sherlock's face took on a horrified expression before his eyes shifted back to John.

"You seriously can't expect me to go to the bathroom in bed using _that_."

"You don't have much of a choice, I'm afraid." John said.

"I can refuse."

"Sherlock," John said warningly. "We need a urine sample for tests to diagnose whatever's going on."

"Fine." Sherlock said relented. After all, he wanted answers as much as the doctors did. "But I'm not using that thing."

John raised his eyebrow.

"Then how are you going to do it?"

"In a washroom, by myself." Sherlock said, sitting up. "Get these things down."

John obliged by lowering the one side rail and Sherlock swung his feet to the floor. Standing hurt a bit more but he gripped the IV pole and pulled himself to his feet, one hand holding the back of his gown closed.

John eyed him nervously, hoping Sherlock didn't pass out on his watch. Dr. Coleman would gloat mercilessly. But Sherlock seemed determined so John found a smaller sample container and asked for directions to the nearest washroom. The nurse pointed the way and John and Sherlock left the treatment room to the wheelchair-accessible bathroom.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" John asked, holding out the cup. Sherlock nodded.

"Of course I'll be okay."

With that, Sherlock took the cup in his hand – it was bit difficult holding the infernal gown closed, grip the IV pole, _and_ hold the sample container but he did it – and locked himself into the bathroom. John waited outside, ignoring the glances he and Sherlock had earned from the other staff.

A few minutes later Sherlock emerged with the sample, handing it to John, who took it gingerly.

"Good." he said. "Back to the exam room, then."

Sherlock was about to protest but John spoke before he could.

"We can go exploring later." he said firmly. "Back to the exam room."

Sherlock almost pouted and walked with John back to the exam room. He sat on the bed while John labelled the urine container and asked one of the nurses to take the samples to the nurses' station.

"Now what?" Sherlock asked, somewhat impatiently. Now that he had drugs and he didn't feel as much pain, he wanted to go home. He hated hospitals.

John sat on the doctor's stool and crossed his arms.

"Now we wait."

**I'm not going to tell you if anyone's guessed right or not so … you'll just have to come back =) **

**Reviews are much appreciated! Thank you! **

**Oh! A bit of self-promotion here: I recently started a long series of stories about John and Mary's life together and I just want to reinforce that even if you're not a Mary fan, she is not a prominent character. Yes, she's there but the primary focus is on John and Sherlock's friendship … especially after a few chapters go by. I think it's worth the read just to see if you can live with a Mary story. The story is called **_**Circle of Life **_**and I'm unbelievably excited about it and I would love to have some feedback. Thank you! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! As always, thanks so much for the support for this story! Your reviews and encouragement mean the world to me and always put a smile on my face. Hope you enjoy the next chapter! **

Sherlock had laid down again. This was boring.

"How much longer, John?" he complained. John sighed.

"These things take time, Sherlock. Be patient."

John yawned and checked his watch. Just past four. He wished there was a more comfortable chair for him in the room but there was only the doctor's stool and though he had leaned up against the counter, John was far from comfortable. At least Sherlock got to lie down.

"What time is it?"

"Four in the morning."

"How long have we been here?"

"An hour."

"That's it?" Sherlock muttered, more to himself than to John. "I'll have to talk to Mycroft about this."

John rolled his eyes.

"Surely you can wait like every other person in this city."

"Why should I?" Sherlock asked and John sighed again. The two fell into a silence that was broken by an intern coming into the room.

"Dr. Watson?" she asked timidly. Obviously, word about Sherlock had gotten around. John glanced at her.

"Yes?"

"I'm to take Mr. Holmes up to radiology."

"Fine."

"Wait, what?" Sherlock's head popped up.

"They're taking you for an x-ray." John said.

"I know what radiology is, John. Why?"

"They want to see your insides."

"Obviously, but what are they looking for?" Sherlock asked. Honestly, it was not a hard question.

"For the cause of the pain," John answered, thinking the same thing. Surely Sherlock could make the jump from abdominal pain to abdominal x-ray. The intern put the rails back up on the bed and unlocked the wheels.

"Are you coming?" Sherlock asked John.

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes. I don't trust any of these people. At least you're not such an idiot."

"Thanks." John said dryly. The intern looked like she was about to cry.

"Don't listen to him. He gets cranky when he's tired." he said to her, stepping behind the bed.

"Do not." Sherlock huffed. "I only say it because it's true."

John, who Sherlock could no longer see, just shook his head and pushed the bed out of the room. The intern led them to the elevator and then up to the third floor.

"This is humiliating." Sherlock complained as doctors and nurses walked by him in the hallway.

"Relax," John said. "They're used to it. They're not even paying attention to who you are."

John pushed the bed up against the side of the corridor and released the side rail.

"Can you walk?" he asked, gathering the IV bag.

"Of course I can walk." Sherlock snapped, sitting up. "I could've walked up here myself."

"Right." John said as he noticed Sherlock wince when he stood, one hand behind his gown again. John and Sherlock followed the intern into the radiology room and John hung the IV bag over the table as Sherlock painfully got on it.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't as good as he said he was. This still really hurt; he didn't understand why they couldn't just give him morphine. It would make everything so much easier and pain-free.

"I'll be waiting outside," John said, starting to leave.

"You can't stay?"

"I'm not a radiologist, Sherlock," John said. "Even when I worked in hospital I had to leave."

Sherlock huffed. He did not like being left in the care of incompetent doctors.

"Just relax, it won't take long." John continued tiredly before leaving the room. He pulled the door closed behind him and sat on the gurney, pushing himself back so he was leaning against the wall.

The door opened a few minutes later and Sherlock emerged again, the intern holding his IV set up. John looked concerned – Sherlock's face had paled considerably – and got off the gurney before helping Sherlock back onto it and covering him with the blankets. Sherlock didn't complain about the gesture – something else, John realized, that should concern him. Together, the trio made their way back to the exam room on the first floor and the nurse said she'd be back when the scans were ready. John nodded and as the door closed, he turned to Sherlock, whose eyes were closed.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Sherlock?"

"Fine." Sherlock's mouth barely moved as he uttered the syllable.

"You don't look fine. What's wrong?"

Sherlock's eyes slid open and John saw they were a bit clouded.

"I'm dizzy."

"Anything else?"

"Nauseous."

To prove his point, Sherlock swallowed reflexively.

"Is it the same type of nausea you felt at home or is it different?"

What a stupid question, Sherlock thought. How should he know? He just felt like he was going to throw up. John noted that Sherlock's face was also beginning to shine with sweat. John pulled on a pair of gloves and took the digital thermometer from the counter. He checked Sherlock's temperature – still just a degree above normal – before finding a pen light and checking Sherlock's responses. They were a bit delayed but otherwise fine. John felt Sherlock's face and neck, finding his glands a little swollen.

"That's odd." John murmured. He moved down the bed and checked the site of the IV port. A small rash was beginning to form. John glanced up at the label on the IV bag – Demerol, which was a common pain killer.

"Sherlock, are you allergic to any medications?" John asked, looking for Sherlock's chart.

"No." Sherlock mumbled and John confirmed it on the record. "What's wrong with me, John?"

"It's alright," Johns said, finding another towel for Sherlock's forehead. "I think it's allergic reaction to the IV. I'll be right back, okay?"

Sherlock nodded and John, after moving a plastic bin to the bed and draping the towel generously, left to find Dr. Coleman. Much to Sherlock's dismay, the doctor followed John back into the exam room and John showed him the rash and elaborated on Sherlock's symptoms. Dr. Coleman agreed and discussed with John the steps to take before leaving the room coldly, not bothering to say anything to Sherlock.

As the door closed behind the doctor, John pulled on another pair of gloves and disconnected the IV.

"How are you doing?" John asked as he worked.

"Fine." Sherlock, again, barely moved. Moving would hurt and most likely make him vomit, something he wanted to avoid.

"What you're feeling – the fogginess, nausea, and dizziness – are all from the Demerol. It's a mild allergic reaction but it was enough to make your glands swell so we're going to give you some Benadryl to combat the anaphylaxis and try Dilaudid for the pain instead. It's a bit closer to morphine so you shouldn't have a problem with it."

"Why don't you just give me morphine?" Sherlock complained as John set up another bag of saline and worked on injecting the drugs into it.

"You know why." John said. "Given your history, morphine is incredibly addictive. We don't want to use it if there are alternatives."

Sherlock dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"Just relax, alright?" John said. "You'll be okay."

"I know."

"Then just calm down. Try to go to sleep."

"I don't want to sleep." mumbled Sherlock. "Sleep is boring."

"Sleep will make you feel better."

"Dull."

John rolled his eyes and finished off the IV, stripping the gloves. He moved the towel and re-wet it before he blotted Sherlock's forehead again.

"How much longer?" Sherlock asked. John checked his watch.

"Depending on the lab and the scans, we should know something within in a few hours."

"A few _hours_? I don't want to stay here for another few hours. I want to go home."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but what did you expect? You have severe abdominal pain. They're not going to simply give you some medicine and send you home."

"Why not?"

"Because something is causing the pain and it needs to be dealt with."

"Won't it just go away on its own?"

"It might," John conceded. "But it might not, depending what _it_ is."

"That's annoying."

John sighed.

"You'll just have to deal with it." John said. "Try to go to sleep. It'll make the time pass faster."

Sherlock squirmed slightly.

"I feel too awful to sleep."

"Is that even possible?"

"Yes."

"If you say so. Just try to rest, okay? Trust me, you'll feel better if you just relax."

Sherlock sighed.

"You sound like a broken record."

"And you're grumpy."

John shook his head – he hadn't been kidding when he told the intern that Sherlock got grumpy when he was tired.

And now he was tired and in a lot of pain.

This was just how John always wanted to spend a night at the A&E.

**As one reviewer pointed out, there is a bit of medical discrepancy in the last chapter. Sherlock wouldn't have been given anything to drink if he was suffering from undiagnosed abdominal pain. Of course, I overlooked that because I know what's wrong with him … anyways. All this to say, I try to be medically accurate but I'm not a doctor … or even a science student; I merely study the history of disease =) **

**Reviews are always lovely, thanks! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi, everyone. As always, thank you for the support and encouragement and I'm sorry it's taken so long for an update. School has just been … well, school. Anyways, here's the chapter. I'm afraid it's rather short but at least all is revealed … enjoy!**

Sherlock tossed and turned on the hard gurney.

"John, I'm hot," he complained, kicking off the blankets. They were still in A&E, still waiting for test results. The clock now read 5:38 AM. John, who had been yawning, stood and came to the bedside, laying a hand on Sherlock's forehead as he squirmed.

"You're burning up," John said to no one in particular. He fetched the thermometer and stuck it in Sherlock's mouth, letting out a low whistle when the machine spit out a number.

"What? What does it say?" Sherlock asked.

"Thirty-nine point seven," John answered, throwing the disposable cover away and setting the machine back on the counter. He pulled the medical chart towards him, intending to update the temperature log.

"Can you do anything about it?"

John checked his watch for the log, scribbling in the time, date, and temperature reading before turning back to Sherlock. He found a compress and laid it on Sherlock's forehead.

"That's it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You could have done _that_ at home."

"Yes," John said with a sigh. "But I couldn't run blood tests or take pictures or administer Dilaudid at home."

"None of which seem to be helping figure out what's wrong with me," Sherlock couldn't help but point out.

"These things take time," John said for what felt like the thousandth time. "There's other patients who need tests run, too. Just think – if it's taking a bit longer, it means you're not as bad off as they are."

Sherlock groaned slightly, clenching his fist and letting his other hand ruffle his hair. John's left eyebrow arched in amusement.

"Pretending to be in more pain is not going to get a rush on the tests."

"I'm not pretending." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "This hurts."

John's amused look quickly transformed into one of concern. Sherlock didn't _look_ like he was faking it … his face had paled slightly and his knuckles were turning white.

"Just take deep breaths," John said. "I'll go find out the status of the labs and pictures."

"John …" Sherlock's voice trailed off as John left the room, returning a few minutes later with the blood work results. He looked over them, noting what tests had come back abnormal. He was getting a pretty clear idea what was wrong but he would wait till he saw the x-rays before making a diagnosis.

Sherlock was not comfortable, constantly tossing and turning in pain.

"John, why isn't the medicine working?"

"I'm not sure. You've built up a huge resistance to a lot of medications; it could be that your body just doesn't respond to normal doses of analgesics."

"Then increase the dose."

"I can't, you know that," John said. Sherlock groaned; this had to be the definition of agony. It felt like someone was tearing his insides apart and all he wanted to do was get away from the pain. The pain went up a notch and Sherlock felt his vision cloud – he didn't actually think it was possible to be in such great pain that vision was affected but he was so, so wrong. His head started spinning and his stomach rose.

Luckily for John, Sherlock, and the hospital janitorial staff, John had a bin ready for Sherlock to vomit into. He watched as Sherlock vocally expressed his pain after vomiting with concern.

"Sherlock," John started to say but was interrupted by an orderly.

"I have pictures for Sherlock Holmes?" the orderly asked in questioning voice and John nodded.

"Good, thank you."

He took the envelope of x-rays and, as the orderly left, stuck them up on the board and turned it on.

"John, what is it? What do you see?"

John saw right away what the problem was and he turned back to Sherlock.

"It's a kidney stone."

"Can't be," Sherlock said, gritting his teeth and squeezing the metal rails of the bed with sweaty palms.

"It is, I'm sure of it."

"How can a bit of calcium build up cause this much pain?"

John smiled thinly.

"Because it's not supposed to be there."

"Can you get rid of it?"

John turned back to the illuminated board and studied the pictures. It was a large stone – John measured it to be 8 mm – and it wasn't ideally situated.

"There are a couple of options when it comes to treating stones," John said with a sigh. "There's shock therapy, which isn't an option for you because of the placement of the stone. There's microscopic surgery … but, believe me, you'd want to avoid that at all costs. And then there's actually surgery in which the stone would be removed. Your best bet," John felt horrible for saying this. "Is to wait it out and try to pass it naturally."

"You mean I'm stuck in this excruciating stage of pain until the thing passes? How long will that take?"

"It could be a couple of hours or it could be a couple of days. They'll monitor you closely to track its progress and if nothing happens, they may choose to do a more invasive procedure."

"You mean you'll monitor me closely." Sherlock corrected. "You're the only doctor I want treating me."

"We'll see." John said. "But I am not performing surgery on you. I'm not an urologist or a surgeon."

Sherlock had no response to that and John glanced at his chart again.

"I'm going to find Dr. Coleman or whatever his name was," John said – he really couldn't remember if that was his name or not. "I'll let him know my diagnosis and then we'll get you upstairs and in a more comfortable bed."

John hesitated.

"Did you want me to call Mycroft?"

"No." Sherlock said, burying his face in his sleeve. He had no desire for Mycroft to see him like this … well, he had no desire for _anyone_ to see him like this but, as crazy as it sounded, he was almost to the point where he was in so much pain that he didn't care _what_ he had to do as long as he got some relief.

John left, found the incompetent doctor (even John had to admit that he wasn't up to standard), explained the situation, and returned with a nurse and orderly. They tried to be gentle with Sherlock, and while it may have been the pain, he did let out quite a few swear words in response to their actions.

"I'm sorry," John said at one point. "He's not very good with pain."

The nurse simply smiled and John was relieved that she didn't take it personally.

"I'm afraid there's some bad news," the orderly said as they were almost ready to leave the exam room. "There aren't any beds available at the moment so we'll move you out of A&E but you won't be able to have a room right away."

"And where do you intend to _put_ me?" Sherlock snapped.

"All of our waiting patients are put in the proper wards in the hallway near the nurses' station until a bed becomes available."

Sherlock groaned. Now _everyone_ would get to see him degraded and embarrassed as a hard piece of calcium moved its way out of his body.

"Can't you do something, John?" Sherlock gripped.

"Sure," John said. "I can call Mycroft."

It was a hard choice, surprisingly, but in the end, Sherlock asked that his older, pompous, aristocrat brother be called. Not surprising was the fact that Mycroft already knew Sherlock was in hospital and arrangements were already being made for a private suite. John hung up the phone and informed Sherlock, who seemed somewhat relieved. The orderly finished his paperwork and then affixed the chart to the gurney and wheeled it out of the room. Sherlock curled up on his side and pulled the blanket up as far as it could go in attempts to hide his face. There was no way _anyone_ was going to see him in this infernal hospital gown. It was humiliating.

**I had such a hard time not responding to all your reviews when you were guessing! A bit misleading, I suppose, as my other kidney stone story is **_**not**_** Sherlock but rather Criminal Minds. And I have to say thank you to **_**Joo Lee**_** for sharing her (many) kidney stone experiences with me … while I'm sorry you suffered, it gave me tons of ideas for Sherlock's experience. **

**Reviews are always welcome, as are ideas on how Sherlock can handle the next few days … thanks! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi, everyone! I'm so sorry this has been so long in coming. It's not that I'm not enjoying the story – I am – but I'm just having a hard time finding motivation to do **_**anything**_** lately (this goes double for school work!) However, I had a good, productive evening homework wise so I thought I'd try my leg at the chapter I've been working on for a week now and voila! Another chapter =) I hope you enjoy and thank you, as always, for your support! **

"This is humiliating." Sherlock complained as John turned his back.

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock." John said with a sigh. "I don't care."

"Well, I do."

John rolled his eyes. He would have never guessed that Sherlock would be so self-conscious about something as simple as peeing into a bottle. Honestly. They were in a private room, the blinds were closed, the door was locked, and John had voluntarily turned his back when Sherlock said he needed to relieve himself. The room had a bathroom but Sherlock was under strict orders to collect all his urine to watch for the stone. Besides, Sherlock was in so much pain he could barely roll over, much less walk to the privacy of the loo.

"You can turn around now." Sherlock said a moment later and John did so to see Sherlock painfully settle back into bed. John didn't ask where the bottle of urine had gone – it was on the floor by the wall, for the record – but went to the side of the bed and pulled up the blankets.

"How are you feeling?" John asked and Sherlock scowled. John raised an eyebrow.

"How do you _think_ I feel?" Sherlock snapped, pulling the blankets up further. "I'm trapped in this infernal place, surrounded by incompetent medical personnel, wearing a degrading hospital gown, urinating into bottles, and in pain that is supposedly equivalent to that of childbirth. You tell me how I'm feeling."

John sighed. Grumpy was what he wanted to answer but he couldn't get Sherlock mad at him. Right now, he was his friend _and_ his doctor so being on non-speaking terms wasn't really an option.

"John?"

"What?"

"I'm going to be sick."

It was not what John had been expecting to hear and he barely had enough time to thrust a bin under Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock vomited, swore in pain, sighed, and lay down again. John put the bin on the table and poured Sherlock a glass of water. Sherlock sipped at it before handing it back to John.

"Now what?"

Sherlock was looking expectantly at John.

"What do you mean 'now what'?"

"Am I just supposed to wait?"

John sighed.

"You really don't have much experience with hospital stays, do you?"

"No. Thankfully."

"Yes, you're supposed to wait." John answered. "They've given you medicine to try and dissolve the stone but you're ill, so rest. Recuperate. Enjoy the time off."

"Dull."

"Are the pain meds working better now?"

"Only until I move." Sherlock muttered. He hadn't been kidding when he said the pain of a kidney stone was supposedly equal to the pain of childbirth … he had read that somewhere, although he couldn't remember where. Of course, he recognized this theory to be completely illogically based as everyone's pain levels were different and childbirth pain varied from woman to woman as well as between each pregnancy so he assumed the same would go for kidney stones. Still, he'd heard from women who'd experienced both that a kidney stone was as bad as, if not worse, than giving birth.

"How long did you say this will take to be over?"

"A couple of hours to a couple of days. It depends on the stone, how you react to the medication, and the amount of pain its causing. If the medicine doesn't dissolve the stone, the doctor will start looking at other options."

"Like what?"

John sighed again and sank into the visitor's chair.

"Honestly Sherlock, didn't you even listen to me when we were in A&E? I explained all of this already."

"I was a little too busy dealing with the pain," Sherlock said coolly.

"The doctors will look at your scans and test results and decide the best course of action," John said. "If the stone is high enough, they can try a lithotripsy, meaning they'll use lasers to break it. If it's too close to any organs, they can go up through the bladder and use microscopic shock waves to try and break the stone."

"Up through the bladder?" Sherlock repeated. "Doesn't that mean going - "

"Yes." John answered before Sherlock could go too far. "You can see why it's not a popular procedure but it will be considered if things don't progress on their own."

"They will." Sherlock said determinedly. There was no way he'd allow that procedure … it sounded more painful than the stone itself.

"They'd give you general anesthetic, Sherlock. You'd be knocked out for the entire thing."

"I don't care."

Sherlock curled up around a pillow and scrunched his eyes closed.

"John?"

"Right here."

John was ready when Sherlock threw up again.

"This is miserable." Sherlock said, reverting back into his curled position. "Can't you make it go away? Would an epidural block the pain?"

John bit his lip to keep from smiling.

"I can guarantee they will not give you an epidural." John said. "You're not in enough pain."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock spat, almost daring John to say that again.

John sighed.

"You'd need to be screaming in agony before they'll consider giving you an epidural."

"The way things are going, I don't think that will take too much more time." Sherlock said with a groan.

"If you keep telling yourself it hurts, it'll just hurt more."

Sherlock cracked open an eye.

"Believe me, I am telling myself I feel no pain whatsoever. My stupid transport has a _very_ different idea."

John sighed.

"Just try to relax, alright? Go to sleep if you can."

"Never going to happen."

John started towards the door and Sherlock opened one of his eyes.

"Where are you going?"

"To the nurses' station. I'll be right back."

John left and returned a moment later with a microwaved heating pad.

"Try this." John said, handing it to Sherlock, who slid it between his stomach and the pillow he was curled around.

"Better?"

"A bit."

"Good. Not good for the fever, mind, but maybe now you'll get some sleep."

"I still doubt it," Sherlock said, although his eyes were closed. "But you need to sleep."

"I'll be fine."

"John, don't be stupid. Go to sleep. The sofa is comfortable; you can tell many people have slept on it before from the body imprint in the cushion."

That didn't necessarily make John feel better – no one wants to sleep on a well-seasoned sofa – but he _was_ tired and he sank onto it and found it _was_ comfortable.

Sherlock seemed content – for now, at least – and John soon fell asleep.

**No promises for the next chapter but I'll do my best! Oh, and because there's only so much Google can tell me and I've never had a kidney stone (knock on wood!), if you have any experiences, I'd love to hear them to help the story along. **

**Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks! **


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi, everyone! I'm not sure if it's good or not that I'm posting so soon to the other chapter … on one hand, it's writing! Yay! On the other hand, it means my day has been less than brilliant and I needed some good Sherlock whump. Oh well. It's written and I feel better for it because I am nowhere as sick as he is (to be fair, I'm not sick at all). Thank you, as always, for your encouragement and I hope you enjoy! **

John had to admit the sofa was quite comfortable and he fell into a deep sleep, so much so that he didn't notice when the door opened and a well-dressed man stepped into the room.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was wide awake – he didn't know how _anyone_ could sleep when experiencing this kind of pain – and tried to look who it was without moving too much.

He scowled when he saw his brother coming towards him.

"Go away, Mycroft."

"You're always so hostile, Brother. It's not very becoming."

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, hoping maybe his fever was high enough that he was hallucinating Mycroft's presence … although _why_ he would hallucinate _that_ specifically he had no idea. This is what happened when Sherlock's transport gave out; his mind started to think stupid thoughts worthy of Anderson.

One thing became apparent, though. He was _not_ hallucinating Mycroft. He realized this as a firm hand came down on his forehead.

"You are burning up," Mycroft said. "I suppose there's no point in asking how you feel."

"None." Sherlock mumbled.

The younger Holmes was desperately trying to mask his pain; for John to see him in such extreme pain was one thing but Mycroft was certainly another.

"You don't have to hide it," Mycroft said, as though he was reading Sherlock's mind. "I know you must be in an extraordinary amount of pain."

Sherlock let out a long breath.

"I'm only in pain because you're here."

"Sherlock." Mycroft said in a tone that epitomized an arched eyebrow and scolding look.

"Go away, Mycroft." Sherlock repeated, although his voice slipped into a moan as he pulled the pillow closer, trying to bury his head in its' foam even further.

"I simply wanted to check in and see how you were doing." Mycroft said. "As well as drop off a bag I picked up at Baker Street."

Sherlock opened one eye.

"Do you have a change of clothes? This hospital gown is itchy."

"I asked at the nurses' station," Mycroft said, unzipping the duffle. "But you are not permitted to wear your own pyjamas. You are, however, allowed to wear this."

Mycroft pulled out the silk blue dressing gown.

"Give it here." Sherlock demanded. Mycroft wordlessly handed him the robe and waited till Sherlock realized he would need help.

At first, Sherlock tried to put it on lying down – it hurt to sit up – but he quickly realized that would not work. Again wordless, Mycroft stepped up to the bed and slid a hand behind Sherlock's back, helping him sit up.

Sherlock gasped at the pain and bit the inside of his cheek till he tasted blood but at least he made it to a sitting position. He got his one arm through and pulled the gown around before realizing the IV would not allow a sleeve to go over it.

"Fix it." he ordered Mycroft.

"What do you say?" Mycroft couldn't help but tease.

"Mycroft." Sherlock growled. "Help me or I will throw up on your shoes."

It wasn't exactly an empty threat, either. Sherlock could feel his stomach churning.

"I don't understand you sometimes, Sherlock," Mycroft said as he took down the IV bag and fed the line and bag through the sleeve before handing it up again.

"I only ever have your best intentions in mind."

"Most of the time. A certain incident with the CIA comes to mind." Sherlock muttered as he fell down again, closing his eyes closed tightly. He could feel his stomach rising in his throat and he swallowed reflexively … it did not work.

"Mycroft … "Sherlock groaned, struggling to push himself up. "I'm going to vomit."

It's to Mycroft's credit that he did not make a joke or tease his brother. Rather, he again slipped his hand behind Sherlock to help him sit up and held the bin while he threw up.

"Finished?" Mycroft asked and Sherlock nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"How can this hurt so much?" he moaned, curling into an impossibly tight ball while Mycroft poured him a glass of water.

"You need to drink."

Sherlock took a miniscule sip, just enough to clear the taste of vomit, and handed back the glass, pulling his pillow closer.

"Did the heating pad help?" Mycroft asked, picking up the discarded heating pad from the floor.

"A bit."

Sherlock became aware of Mycroft walking towards the door and he returned a moment later with a hot heating pad.

"Here."

Sherlock took it and this time applied it to his back – the pain seemed to have shifted a bit – and sighed as he felt the edge be dulled away. Of course, this was only temporary until he became used to the heat on his back.

"Aren't they giving you pain medication?" Mycroft asked, his brow furrowing in concern. He was quite worried about his brother; he had watched Sherlock be injured several times and every time Sherlock would do nothing more than swear and flinch. To see him like this was a bit of a shock.

"Dilaudid, I think. Already had an allergic reaction to Demerol."

"Do you want morphine?"

It was a dangerous question but one Mycroft knew Sherlock would not take lightly. Sure enough, it was a delayed response.

"No."

Mycroft was pleased with the answer, although it meant Sherlock would continue to suffer as clearly, the Dilaudid was not working very well. Sherlock's eyes were closed again as Mycroft left for a second time, returning with an ice pack wrapped in a surgical towel. He pressed it to Sherlock's forehead, which was damp with sweat.

"Mycroft, don't," Sherlock mumbled out of principle, enjoying the feeling of cold on his burning skin.

"Just relax," Mycroft said in a surprisingly soothing voice. "Close your eyes and focus on your breathing. The pain will go away soon."

For a few minutes, the room was simply filled with Sherlock taking deep breaths.

"Where does it hurt?" Mycroft asked.

"Back. Left side."

Mycroft went to the other side of the bed and reached out his hand.

"Don't touch me." Sherlock snapped before a hand was laid on him.

"Calm down, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I'm simply going to massage it to try and dull the pain."

Try as he might, Sherlock could not relax knowing that Mycroft's hands were about to touch his lower back. As he felt the first touch, he flinched out of instinct and swore under his breath.

"Sherlock, relax." Mycroft instructed, rubbing a tight circle with two of his fingers. "Does that help?"

Once Sherlock had flinched in pain and gotten used to Mycroft giving him a massage – honestly, he must have thrown up the rest of his pride a moment ago – he had to admit that it felt pretty good.

"Mhmm." Sherlock said, closing his eyes again.

"Deep breaths." Mycroft said and Sherlock obeyed.

Surprisingly, Sherlock dozed off. After a few minutes, Mycroft stopped, put the heating pad against his brother's back, and pulled the covers up around him neatly. He glanced at John, who was still dead to the world on the sofa. He smiled a satisfied smile, picked up his briefcase and umbrella, and then left the room.

**Again, thank you to everyone who gave me ideas in reviews, especially **_**Joo Lee **_**and **_**Bruderlein **_**for their suggestions! I'm sorry this chapter is so short but I desperately wanted to do a Mycroft-Sherlock scene. Oh … and sorry if there's any typos. I'm extremely tired at the moment … **

**Reviews are always appreciated! Thank you! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hi, everyone! As always, thank you SO much for the reads, reviews, favs, and follows! As you can see, your support and encouragement has been working! Three chapters in one week! I don't know if this trend will continue but for now, I hope you enjoy this =) **

When John woke up, it was to the sound of Sherlock moaning.

"Oww … "

John blinked awake slowly.

"Oww …" the voice had become louder.

"Sherlock?" John asked tiredly. "Are you okay?"

"No." Sherlock snapped. "No, I'm not."

John sat up.

"What's wrong?"

"What a –" Sherlock inserted a colourful range of swear words here. "Stupid question. Ow!"

Sherlock curled up even tighter, his knuckles turning white from gripping the bed frame. John got up and went to the side of the bed.

"The pain is that bad, then?" John asked, feeling Sherlock's pulse. His heart was racing.

"Yes." Sherlock muttered as he clenched his eyes and teeth.

"Do you want to try walking around a little bit?" John asked. "Some people find that if they move around, it dulls the pain."

"How could it possible help? I can barely move now."

"It might feel differently if you're on your feet." John insisted.

"I'll try anything."

"Alright," John said, lowering the rail on Sherlock's bed. "Take it slowly," he said. "There's no rush."

It was only then that John noticed the blue silk dressing gown.

"Where did you get your dressing gown?" John asked. "Did Mrs. Hudson come by?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock grunted as he sat up slowly. His face was deathly pale and he looked at John and the doctor thought that for a moment he saw tears welling in Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh."

John held out his hand for Sherlock as the detective untangled the blankets from around his legs, standing slowly. Sherlock used John's hand for balance as his feet hit the ground. His legs felt shaky but as he took a few steps he gained confidence.

"Whoa, careful," John said, moving the IV bag from the bed hook onto a pole with wheels. He pushed it the few feet to Sherlock, who gripped it with his left hand.

"How does it feel?"

"Alright." Sherlock said, taking another few steps. Walking – or being upright, at least – seemed to help a little bit. It took some of the pressure off his lower back. Sherlock began pacing the room – eight steps one direction, turn, eight steps back. While it seemed to help the pain, it made him slightly dizzy and it was tedious.

However, he would gladly have taken _hours_ of pacing in lieu of what happened next. He was on step five towards the bathroom door when he stopped suddenly, feeling the pain increase exponentially.

"Sherlock?" John asked. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

A noise escaped Sherlock's mouth as he gripped the IV pole tighter and sank to his knees.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, dropping next to his friend. "Sherlock, talk to me."

"Can't." Sherlock muttered, his eyes closed tightly.

This was a mind game, Holmes, get a grip. It was just transport and it was sending signals to his brain. It was all chemical, just science. He was fine. He was fine. You are fine. You are –

"Make it stop," he groaned, curling to his right side.

"Okay," John said. "Don't panic."

A rather ironic choice of words as John _was_ panicking.

"Do you think you can get back to bed?"

John pulled gently at Sherlock's arm but the detective did not move.

"Sherlock, you need to go back to bed," John said a little less sympathetically. "I know it hurts but –"

"You have no idea what this is like." Sherlock snapped. "This is _hell_. I can guarantee you've never felt something of this calibre before."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Getting shot doesn't count, then?"

"Not even close."

"You've never been shot before!"

"It doesn't matter! Nothing could be worse than this." Sherlock said, his voice catching in his throat. He finally looked up at John.

"Please … help me … "

It was those words again. Twice in twenty-four hours. John nodded, forgetting their little dispute.

"I will but you need to get off the floor."

Sherlock took a deep breath and stood up with John's help. John guided him back to the bed.

"Sit, if it helps," John said as Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed. "I'm going to find the other doctor."

"Why?" Sherlock complained. "He's an idiot."

"I know." John said. "But I need his signature to order more scans."

John left the room and returned for the chart.

"He refuses to come in." John informed Sherlock.

"Good. He's not allowed in."

John rolled his eyes and met the doctor at the nurses' station again. He obtained the much needed signature and a moment later, John went back into the room.

"Okay, you're going to have to lie down again." John said. "I'm taking you for more pictures."

"Can't I walk?" Sherlock complained.

"You could barely manage the length of the room, Sherlock. Radiology is on the other side of the building. Bed or wheelchair."

"Bed." Sherlock said immediately. At least then he could pull the blankets up and hide his face. John settled Sherlock in bed before wheeling him out of the room. One of the nurses had called radiology and they were waiting for Sherlock. The consulting detective swore mightily as they had him straighten out in bed – lucky he could even stay _in _the bed, John realized – but the pictures didn't take that long and soon John was wheeling his friend back to his room. John got another heating pad, although Sherlock's pain was so intense now that it didn't seem to help much more. A nurse came and changed the IV solution so the drugs didn't lose their effect.

"What effect?" Sherlock asked. "I feel like they're doing nothing to begin with."

"I'm sure you would disagree if I didn't put a new mix up," the nurse said with a smile. Sherlock scowled at her and stuck his tongue out at the back of her head as she left.

"Very mature." John said, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall.

"She had it coming. How long till the pictures come back?"

"Soon, Sherlock. There was a rush put on them. Fifteen minutes, tops."

It didn't even take fifteen minutes. Five minutes later, a different nurse came in and told John the scans were available to see on the computer.

"What's Dr. Coleman's password?" John asked Sherlock.

"_Fleming,_ uppercase F." Sherlock grunted.

John typed it in and quickly accessed the medical scans.

"How did you know that?" he asked as he searched the pictures.

"His keychain had a Lincoln College crest and he was wearing the Fleming crest ring on his left pinky. Don't know why, he's not relation, but obviously he's a huge admirer."

"How do you even know that?" John muttered.

"I get bored." Sherlock said stubbornly. "So I learn things."

"Hang on," John said, turning away from the computer screen. "You memorize family and college crests but you can't be bothered to remember the name of the Prime Minister?"

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"John," he groaned. "Yes … no … whatever. What do the pictures show?"

John turned back to the screen, shaking his head. He scrolled through till he found the one he wanted.

"Good news and bad news," he said after studying it for a moment. "Which do you want first?"

"I don't care."

"Well, the good news is that the reason you're in so much is pain is that the stone is moving. It's working its way out of your system, which means the medicine to dissolve it has been at least somewhat effective."

"And the bad news?"

"If the medicine stops working, which it very well might, the stone is now too close to the bladder to use laser waves to break it. We would have to go through the bladder to break it up surgically at this point."

Sherlock groaned.

"What now?"

John sighed.

"It depends on you. Do you think you want to try and pass it naturally or opt for surgery?"

The choice, with neither option being very appealing, was easy.

"No surgery unless absolutely necessary." Sherlock said. It wasn't just because this particular procedure involved a rather sharp needle in a rather sensitive area; it was just a policy Sherlock always tried to follow.

"But can you do something for the pain?"

"Like what?"

"An epidural."

John sighed again.

"Is the pain that severe?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at John.

"I will ask again, John. Do you really think I'd be asking if I thought I could handle it without one?"

"I'll see what I can do," John said, turning and leaving the room.

**Review? **

**As always, special thanks to those who shared their experiences with me … in this chapter, a special thanks to **_**Joo Lee **_**and **_**Ravenoak21**_**. **

**Oh, a side note. I haven't forgotten about **_**Circle of Life**_** but my muses are not behaving at the moment but I hope to post soon! **

**I hope you all have a very blessed Easter! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**I know it's been a long time. I'm sorry about that – I rather lost inspiration for the story. I'm still not sure it's back now … I just didn't want to study so I wrote instead :P Anyways, thank you, as always, for the encouragement and I hope you enjoy the chapter! **

When John returned, it was with the other doctor. Sherlock unearthed his head from the pillows and blankets and glared at John.

"What's he doing here?"

"Calm down," John said. "He's here to discuss options."

Sherlock didn't look happy about it but he at least didn't send the doctor out of the room. The doctor basically explained what John had – the stone was moving and any surgical options would now require going through the bladder to reach the stone.

"No." Sherlock said stubbornly. "That is the _last_ resort. I don't want to have surgery."

"Sherlock," John said with a sigh. "It'd be over in twenty minutes and the pain would be gone. There's no telling how long the stone could take to pass naturally. It could be _days_."

"I don't care. No surgery unless absolutely necessary."

"If that's the case," the doctor spoke up. "Then we need to discuss pain management. Dr. Watson tells me you're uncomfortable."

"Nothing gets by you." Sherlock said dryly.  
"Sherlock …" John said in a warning tone.

"Can I have an epidural?" Sherlock asked the doctor, wincing as he shifted to his side.

"It's a possibility," the doctor responded. "But the risk of infection is too great right now. We'd need to continue the antibiotics for at least twenty-four hours before it's a plausible option."

Sherlock groaned, gripping the bed rail.

"We can try a patient controlled analgesia device, or a PCA. Have you heard of them before?"

"Yes." Sherlock said. "You'd put a maximum dose in the pump and I can control how much I get."

"Right." The doctor said. "Because the Dilaudid does not appear to be working, we'll try a different medication and hope for better results."

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes briefly. He felt nauseous.

"Alright, then we'll get that set up right away." The doctor continued. "Do you have any questions or concerns?"

"How long until surgery is the only option?"

"It depends on the stone's movement and your pain level," the doctor answered. "We'll assess you regularly over the next couple of hours and see how you're coping with the PCA and track the stone's progress. We'll know more after some time has passed."

Sherlock nodded but rolled his eyes. Medicine could be so _inconclusive_ sometimes. It was _annoying_. He heard the doctor leave and a few minutes a nurse came in and set up the PCA. She showed Sherlock were the button was for a dose and set the machine to deliver a standard dose every ten minutes. As soon as she left, Sherlock pressed the button.

"Sherlock," John said from the sofa. "The machine will only give out a dose every five minutes no matter how many times you press the button. Try to go to sleep."

Sherlock sighed. This was why he hated hospitals and why he hated being ill. That's all he was ever told to do: sleep. Still, the new medication regime seemed to be working a bit better and Sherlock was able to fall into a restless sleep fairly quickly. John, who was rested from his nap, sat on the sofa and watched his friend's chest rise and fall.

It was hard to see Sherlock suffering so much. John, since the day he had met Sherlock, was always there to help in any way he could. Now Sherlock really needed help – in the field John knew best, even – and he could do nothing but watch a machine give a dose every ten minutes. It was a challenge, honestly. John wondered if he'd feel the same way if it was someone else in the bed or if it was just because it was Sherlock.

As the hours passed, a nurse came in regularly and checked the IV line and Sherlock's vitals, trying to gauge his pain. John eventually got up and went for a walk, stepping outside into the fresh air. He had forgotten how stuffy hospital rooms could be. After going in to check on Sherlock and finding him sleeping, John decided to go home and catch a shower and find some substantial food.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up, the room and outside were both dark. He could sense the room was empty and figured that John had gone back home for a bit. Good. He needed to think. Illness of any sort was rather foreign to Sherlock. Sure, he got flu or the sniffles once and awhile – he wasn't superman – but nothing this extreme had happened to him since he was a child. Sherlock didn't like being in hospital; he hated being told what he could and could not do and for other people to have authority over his body. Sherlock tried to roll over but stopped on his side. It hurt too much to move. His finger found the button on the PCA and he tried to relax as he knew the medicine was rushing down the IV line and into his blood stream.

Sherlock tried to take deep breaths to calm himself – pain management was 95 percent psychological – and continued doing so even after John returned, smelling of his shampoo and soap. John didn't say anything but Sherlock heard him glance at Sherlock's chart … that was another thing. John was the best doctor Sherlock had ever known and one of the only ones he trusted but it was uncomfortable knowing that John knew what his temperature, his blood pressure, and his pulse all were. It felt like an invasion of privacy.

John fell back onto the sofa and Sherlock heard the click of keys; he had his laptop then.

"You'd better not be writing a blog about this." Sherlock muttered, still not opening his eyes. John jumped and glanced at Sherlock.

"I didn't know you were awake," he said. "How are you doing?"

"Fine."

"That doesn't tell me anything, Sherlock."

"It tells you I'm managing."

"I suppose. The PCA is working out, then?"

"Better than whatever I had before."

"Have you thrown up any more?"

"No."

"Are you nauseous?"

"I don't want anything to eat or drink, if that's what you're asking."

"You should be drinking."

"I'm not thirsty so don't bother."

John hadn't intended on bothering because he knew Sherlock wouldn't accept the cup of water anyways.

"What time is it?"

"Just after two o'clock in the morning."

"Already?" At this, Sherlock opened his eyes and squinted at John. "How long did I sleep?"

"Eight hours or so. You've been here for almost a full twenty four hours already."

"Have they done any more pictures?"

"No, but they probably will in a few hours when more staff arrive. Night shifts are usually quite quiet in radiology."

"Then why can't I go now?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. You'd have to talk to Dr. Coleman but unless he's on call, he won't be in till the day shift starts, either."

Sherlock mumbled something rude under his breath which John chose to ignore.

"Just –"

"I know. Try to go to sleep." Sherlock cut him off. "I'm sick of sleep."

"Yes, but you're still sick so you need to be sleeping."

John knew it didn't matter much if Sherlock felt like it or not, he'd be sleeping again within twenty minutes. He was right.

* * *

Sherlock woke up to searing pain a few hours later. The first thing he did when he opened his eyes was throw up, followed by a string of curse words. It startled both John and the nurse who had been checking the PCA.

"John," Sherlock moaned, gripping the metal bar tightly and squeezing his eyes closed. John abandoned the sofa and came to the edge of the bed. He glanced at the nurse.

"Find Dr. Coleman." He said immediately before looking at Sherlock.

"What is it?"

"Pain."

"More than before?"

"Yes." Sherlock mumbled, swallowing back bile.

"Okay, it's alright. You'll be fine." John wet a face cloth and began sponging off Sherlock's face until Dr. Coleman came in. He took one look at Sherlock before turning to the nurse, telling her to let radiology know they were on their way. John was slightly worried by how quickly Sherlock was being wheeled to x-ray. Sudden pain was never good.

"I'll wait right here, Sherlock," John said as they wheeled the bed out of the room. He sank onto the couch to wait until Sherlock came back. When he did, Sherlock was as white as a sheet and it did not take Dr. Coleman very long to be in to look at the scans. His brow was furrowed and John could see that the scans showed nothing promising.

"Mr. Holmes," Dr. Coleman said, turning from the computer screen.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock mumbled. It was never good when anyone called him Mr. Holmes, especially a doctor. "Why is there so much pain suddenly?"

"The stone has not moved much," Dr. Coleman said. "The sudden pain is the beginning of a blockage to the urinary tract."

"What are you saying?" Sherlock asked, gripping the bedrails once again. "Do I need surgery?"

Dr. Coleman glanced at John and then back at Sherlock.

"Yes."

**I need to seriously thank **_**madscientistsuz**_** for their help in this chapter. I write this a lot but I'll say it again: I am NOT a doctor so I basically go off what Google is able to tell me and people's experiences with whatever illness I'm working with at the moment. As is often the case, what I wrote was not medically sound and **_**madscientistsuz**_** was kind enough to suggest more appropriate treatment methods. So thank you! I always appreciate when my errors are pointed out, it makes me a better writer. **

**Reviews are always appreciated and, like I've posted several times now, **_**Circle of Life**_** will be updated soon, I promise! **


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! So I've finally gotten around to finishing up the story. Thank you, as always, for your support and encouragement! It means the world to me. And now, for your reading pleasure, I present the last chapter of **_**Rebellion**_**. I hope you enjoy! **

"Yes."

The word hung in the air like a brick before Sherlock proceeded to vomit. Dr. Coleman watched patiently as John cleaned him up before speaking.

"Do you have any questions?"

"No. Get out."

"I'll schedule the surgery for this afternoon."

"Fine. Go."

John didn't say anything but watched Dr. Coleman leave the room. Only then did Sherlock pull his pillow over his head and groan.

"I don't want surgery, John." He complained.

"You don't have much of a choice." John answered. "The stone is blocking your urinary tract. The pain will only get worse and the medication isn't strong enough to dissolve the stone."

"There's absolutely no other way?"

"I'm afraid not," John said. "But don't worry. It's a simple procedure that minimally invasive."

"_Minimally invasive_?!" Sherlock exclaimed. "How is anything that goes up there minimally invasive?"

John sighed.

"You'll be unconscious, Sherlock, and there's not a very long recovery time. No stitches or staples, no follow-up visits."

Okay, the last bit may be a lie but John was fairly certain Sherlock wouldn't go to the check-up anyways.

"Can you do it?"

Sherlock was clearly miserable. He was in pain and now faced at the prospect of a very uncomfortable and humiliating surgery.

"No. I'm not an urologist and … no."

John did not want to be put in this position. It was emasculating enough for anyone to be exposed to the world in this manner and John was not going to witness Sherlock go through that. No.

"Try to relax, alright?" John said. "Go back to sleep if you can."

Sherlock didn't respond but closed his eyes. He just wanted this to be over so he could go home.

* * *

By afternoon, Sherlock's pain had gone up even more and he was able to focus on that rather than his surgery, which, Sherlock thought, was a sick way of thinking. He just couldn't win.

By the time a nurse came to prepare him for surgery, Sherlock was at the end of his rope.

"I'm sorry," John said after the nurse had started crying in response to something Sherlock said to her. "He's in a lot of pain and he's nervous. I'll finish prepping him, if you'd like."

The nurse gratefully took the opportunity to leave the room.

"Was that necessary?" John asked Sherlock as he picked up the pen the nurse had been using and glanced at Sherlock's vitals before noting them in the chart.

"Yes." Sherlock grumbled. "She's completely inadequate at her job."

"And I suppose you could do much better?"

"Obviously."

John rolled his eyes and handed Sherlock the surgical cap.

"You've got be kidding me. I am _not_ wearing that, I'll look stupid."

"It's protocol, Sherlock. The OR is a sterile environment."

"How does covering my hair with a thin paper hair net make the OR sterile? I'm wearing non-sterile clothes."

"You're wearing a hospital gown." John specified. "That's why she had to take your dressing gown off. Besides, once you're unconscious, they'll expose the area they're working on and sterilize it with an iodine solution."

Sherlock merely blanched when he finished putting the cap on.

"Ugh, I feel so _stupid_."

"These people are doctors, Sherlock. They don't care what you look like, they see it every day."

"They don't see _me_ every day."

John sighed again. Now _he _was wishing he could leave. Luckily for both of them, the orderly arrived with a gurney.

"Mr. Holmes?" the orderly asked. "I'm here to take you to surgery."

Sherlock sighed as John lowered the rail on the side of his bed. In a flurry of movement, the IV bag was moved and Sherlock slid onto the small, hard bed. The rails were raised and John tucked a blanket around him.

"I'll be waiting for you when you wake up," John said, walking with the gurney till the doors that stated only surgical staff was allowed beyond this point. "You'll be fine."

Sherlock was less certain and tried to distract himself by what was going on around him. He was moved to the operating table, groaning slightly when he saw the leg supports locked into place. This was, quite possibly, the most embarrassing thing he had ever experienced.

A kind looking nurse spread Sherlock's arms out and strapped them down – something Sherlock was not comfortable with. He watched with little interest as a different nurse added something to his IV before the anesthesiologist came in.

"Sherlock, can you count backwards from one hundred for me?" he asked, placing the breathing mask over Sherlock's nose.

"One hundred, ninety nine, ninety eight … ninety seven … ninety six …"

* * *

John, though he knew the procedure was safe, began pacing. He didn't like the idea of Sherlock in surgery and it was odd to think that for once, he was not the one taking care of his friend. Given the nature of the procedure, John was alright with this although it certainly felt like he had no control in making sure Sherlock was okay.

The procedure itself didn't take very much time and before long, Sherlock was being wheeled into recovery.

"How did it go?" John asked Dr. Coleman.

"We were able to break the stone and remove all the fragments."

"When can he go home?" John asked, knowing that would be the first thing out of Sherlock's mouth.

"I'd like to monitor his pain for a couple of hours but if all goes well, Mr. Holmes can go home tonight. I'll be back to check on him soon."

John nodded and thanked Dr. Coleman before pulling up a chair next to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock's eyelids slowly fluttered open.

"Is it over?" he mumbled, finding it hard to muster the strength to open his eyes all the way.

"Yes." John said. "Everything went well, the stone is gone."

"Can I go home?"

"In a few hours."

"Good."

With that, Sherlock's eyelids slid closed again.

* * *

"Aren't you ready yet?" Sherlock asked John, who was packing the bag Mycroft had brought.

"Patience, Sherlock. You still have to sign the discharge papers before we can leave."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but was ready John zipped the duffle bag closed and slung it over his shoulder.

"I'll find you a wheelchair."

"I don't need a wheelchair."

"Have you tried to walk?"

"No, but why should that matter?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"You try to walk. I'll find you a wheelchair."

John dropped the duffle bag near the door and went to fetch a wheelchair. He returned to a slightly pale Sherlock sitting on his bed.

"What did I tell you?" John asked, offering a hand to help Sherlock into the wheelchair. "You're going to be sore for a little while, though some walking is good. It'll help stretch your back muscles. The stairs at Baker Street and the hallway to your bed will suffice."

Sherlock didn't necessarily like the sound of that – Baker Street had a large number of stairs, which sounded more painful that walking down a flat hallway. John stopped at the nurses' station and Sherlock signed all the forms before John pushed him to the doorway. He hailed a taxi and slowly Sherlock stood up and got into the cab, followed by John.

Once at Baker Street – the stairs, as Sherlock suspected, had been painful to say the least – Sherlock fell into his bed with a sigh. The hospital bed had been horridly uncomfortable and he was tired and groggy from the medication.

John came in a few minutes later with a cup of juice and some more pills.

"Here," he said, handing them over. "Do you think you can manage some soup for supper?"

"I'm going to sleep." Sherlock answered, swallowing the pills.

"You haven't eaten anything in over two days," John protested. "Please? Can you just try a little bit? You shouldn't be nauseous anymore."

Sherlock sighed.

"Fine."

"Good."

John went to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a tray of soup and crackers. Sherlock was (unhappily) still awake. He had totally intended on falling asleep before John returned, counting on John's soft side to not wake him up to eat. However, he hadn't been able to fall asleep. He was uncomfortable … didn't Dr. Coleman say something about a burning sensation? Sherlock couldn't remember; he'd tuned out that portion of the conversation.

Sherlock sat up when John appeared with food and Sherlock ate the soup and crackers without complaint. He hadn't been hungry but he felt marginally better once there was food in his stomach.

"It's important that you keep drinking," John said, setting a water bottle on the bedside table.

"I know …" Sherlock said, squirming slightly. "John?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock felt his cheeks go red as he asked John what Dr. Coleman had said about the unpleasant feeling.

"Take a warm bath," John said. "It'll help. Do you want me to run you one?"

Sherlock, feeling mortified for the umpteenth time that day, nodded. John had filled the tub with warm water by the time Sherlock made it to the bathroom and once John left, he sank into the water gratefully. His friend had been right – it did help – and when he got out, Sherlock fell asleep quickly.

* * *

John went in to check on his friend a little while later. He was exhausted himself; ever since Sherlock woke him up with the initial pain, John had gotten very little sleep and his body, while once accustomed to overnight shifts and late night study sessions, was worn out. The doctor peeked into the room and was relieved to find Sherlock sleeping soundly.

Good. Now John would be able to get some rest.

Heaven knows he'd need it. Sherlock, he suspected, would be a very trying patient.

**And that, my friends, is the end of **_**Rebellion**_**. I hope you enjoyed it! **

**Happy reading and writing,**

**StoryLover18**


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